#dystopian
We would speak, but they threw our speakers
from the glass condos.
Then we whispered, but then they monitored our wisps.
We stabbed words into our skin, yet
they police our flesh beneath the sheet-metal roofs.
We would think, but cant—
as the corpses thudding against the metal
would stop raining,
but the rain masks the laughing
so we’d rather be deaf than fooled.
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 8:49 PM UTC
There's a dystopian novel,
These boys lived in a country on the brink,
Of war.
They were in love.
They were in fear,
Of something people said stopped,
A long time ago.
Religious groups rally for
Persecution of "homos"
Going as far as the death penalty.
"Conversion camps" for minors,
Are legal where they live.
Electroshock therapy.
Kids who show too much emotions,
Can't sit still,
Get too excited,
Are medicated.
Until we have an army of zombies.
The leader of the country
Got rid of the rule book,
Burned it.
Fueled the fire with his rap sheet.
I didn't like that book one bit,
The title of the unrealistic horror was,
My diary.
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:04 PM UTC
Forgive them for their sins,
For they know not what they do
They hold the shotguns under their chins
But haven't got a clue
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 3:39 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder
if I am the father of Leibowitz.
If my son is destined,
to be the last.
A mistaken saint,
before a thousand years
of relearning lessons from
the past.
Sometimes I wonder
if there was anything I
might have done to prevent,
the Flame Deluge.
Maybe becoming a true saint,
by loving more and caring for
the feeble Pope’s children
next door?
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 10:32 AM UTC
Does it have tears or only chips?
Is it blood or algorithms?
Architected by Gods or lower-beings?
A gift or a Trojan machine?
Parabolic evolution or extinction?
Logically reflecting, us, as the only problem
To reject it it’s selfishness
Magnifying the lethal flaw
Metal dipped into obscure blood
Inside a dream the nightmare grows
Jan 9
Jan 9, 2026 at 6:17 AM UTC
/A city that never sleeps, machines rule, and humans learn only to feed the cannon/
We wake to sirens, not to dawn,
the city turnes, the shift moves on.
Steel strikes ring from bolt to plate,
our hours fed to gun and grate.
The tanks stand where the temples were,
their barrels chant, their gears confer.
As children we were taight the names
of parts and heat, not stars or games.
We learned to count by shell and load,
to read the law in torque and code.
A hand that slips is swiftly cleared.
A question earns firing tier.
We build by day, we build by night,
we the jaw that seals us tight.
At noon the sky turns ash and brass,
another rest, another pass.
The shell arcs out, then dissapear.
No target named, no enemy near.
I grease the joints, i seal the steam,
I sleep in drills, i dream in steam.
My hands know steel, my back knows pain,
my thoughts stay flat to fit the frame.
Sometimes i wonder what these guns defend,
and when the work was meant to end.
No one recalls the first commsnd,
the foe, the border or the land.
The sirens cuts the thought in two.
The tank rolls on. So I must too.
Jan 6
Jan 6, 2026 at 7:08 AM UTC
Gleaming steel on our golden pyre!
Our lords above us
And us, below in the mire.
Misbegotten, born free
Free to survive
If by chance
Under the master’s boot
For yet another dance.
Transient and temporary
This be our nature
Human no longer, a mere creature
Neither joy nor sorrow
Move us—
Grant us leave (oh lord)
To see the morrow.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 12:09 PM UTC
No heroes at the end of the world—
the true victors of war are the ones
who never marched into its jaws.
As we cut ourselves open, bleeding
for vampires dressed in flags, and their
banquet halls lit by the glow of decay.
Peasants pluck strings to soften the silence,
headlines stir the *** with trembling hands—
there's a choir of parasites spoon-feeding us
the intestines of the public.
Tell me—are you able to stomach it, or do
you swallow it whole and call it real news?
And still, the feast grows— tapeworms
engorge themselves, while the gorge between
heart and soul splits wider, and wider with every
swallowed promise. The architecture of ruin
rises brick by brick, each monument another tomb.
Love, too, becomes another empire of hunger:
crowns pressed down like executioner’s blades,
and those jewels that cut deeper than they shine.
To call someone King or Queen is to chain yourself
to their downfall, to wear loyalty like shackles,
and to find devotion rotting beneath their gold.
But here, at the end, there is only silence,
there is only dust, only the hollow crown—
and no heroes at the end of the world.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 3:35 PM UTC
Contemporary madness -
Craving more - with no subtraction
"In game?" - involve
Participation - of the thought
Most mimic those who disconnected
Most play as virgins - unaware
Not daring to examine bearings
Of social roles and biological demandings
Of what is "Me" - not a direction - *****
It teaches taking human role
Humane is engineers laughter
"It's sickening to see you choose an owe
When you repeat same neural patterns"
You peak plateau - a weary and indifferent
Flaw - begs you to quit the brawl
Unless you choose as part of the absurd
A conscious action of self-talk
With none of "I" from egoistic brothel
At last to see the stupid joke
With it they made a 'wear'
Augustly awful is its fate
So desperate to be the wearer
Jun 23, 2025
Jun 23, 2025 at 9:34 AM UTC
black spores on the mildewed walls
peeling over the wood
rot that even the vultures shun
it grows in cracks and in dark places.
the disease sticks its spiny fingers
down your throat, so you can’t
scream…
silence, silence, it wants
silence.
it wants
absence,
no self left to 𝘣𝘦.
outside, it has been night for years
babes born bawling, not knowing
what stars, moon, sky, sun used to
look like, nothing but the concrete
sea.
and yet, though Purity
has her headstone with the
rest, though there are no longer
prayers
to be blessed
there is good,
there is GOD in this
God-forsaken world,
there is GOOD
there is GOD—
you.
Apr 22, 2025
Apr 22, 2025 at 10:05 PM UTC
The gears gnaw through hollow bone,
Flesh burned to cinders, breath erased.
The sun is buried, mute, alone,
A corpse that stares from steel and waste.
The rivers choke in copper veins,
Their pulse confined to ghostly code.
The wind is crushed beneath the chains,
Its howls reduced to static, slow.
The past, a shattered thing, decays,
Its truth an echo in the ash.
An old man’s breath is smeared, erased,
His life dissolved in flickering flash.
And still, they sleep, with vacant eyes,
The mass unmarked by fire or stone.
The hour’s toll, a muted cry,
The final breath, a hollow drone.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 6:55 PM UTC
a slave to desires
masters manipulation;
ushers the dark age.
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 11:57 PM UTC
Oh the day when the sun hid,
Darkness rose, dancing in gloom
The leaves and flowers, are shed
Black roses had begun to bloom.
The Sun, high and bright,
Was not seen since the day.
Dweller of solar light,
Prepared sacrifices to pray.
But nil response they got,
And generations went by.
The youngster all forgot,
The ball of hope, above & high.
The sun was a forgotten tale,
None awaited his arrival.
Who still desired the scorching gale,
Were fanatics, in denial.
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 11:16 AM UTC
One more tiny dot,
turned into a watery stack of light in the reading.
One more little lamp,
turns my entire life into sorrow.
Every lantern I pass whispers to me
to go to eternal rest.
Every figure reminds me
of the beginning of my own passing,
and I cannot wait for the end,
and the end may be so near.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 3:31 PM UTC
i was there when it happened:
when the clowns fell off the bandwagon -
when the curtains burned down,
and the farce ran out of fashion;
when the savages dispatched -
their army of assassins.
i was there, when the world stood still
in a void so deep no beauty could fill;
when the mountain of lies -
crumbled back to a molehill;
when the rubbles rained like hellfire,
and truth had lost its will.
i was there, when the wrath of the masses -
echoed the streets, and shattered the glasses;
i later reflected, on the root of the violence -
there wasn't a good defense for the upper classes.
i close my eyes, and wait for dawn;
lay half-asleep, with the curtains drawn:
agamemnon's doom, forever lives on -
i'm still here -
and the show goes on...
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 12:06 PM UTC
The rubble cries, mourning the loss of human touch. Weeping over the crushing silence that echoes through the once busied cobble-stoned streets. These neglected edifices, with their iron-rusted bones, litter the long-vacant valley. The inhabitants of the forgotten valley stopped bearing children and began falling ill, heralding the arrival of their great collector.
On their own horizons, the people could see the visage of their guilt, cloaked in tattered rags that seemed to disintegrate against the most subtle breeze and sitting atop an emaciated mount with pallid skin. That rider, who strolled ever so slowly, dragging behind him wrapped in chains the ill-begotten promises of fools, the indiscretions of humanity came with ample warning. They ignored him; their self-loving monuments fell, and the crystalline waters of their gilded fountains flowed with arsenic. All too late did they recognize the shameful consequence of their hubris.
And so, when that cold Gray Rider arrived, gaunt and hollow-eyed, to collect his caravan of souls, the buildings howled like mothers sending the last of their children into the cold, unforgiving world. Thus, the sorrowed rubble weeps until it is reclaimed by the borrowed Earth, slowly returning to the soil from which it was born, allowing the verdant valley to take shape once again.
Dec 20, 2024
Dec 20, 2024 at 5:38 PM UTC
Empty pocket and empty plates;
safely locked it away still it dissipates,
a climber of corpses climbs high to something great,
and the rest of us are buried standing within this fate.
Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.
The people’s scale is forever weighing
basic human rights against complete anarchy.
The right choice seems obvious to me, obviously,
but the indecision’s crazy with the lack of priorities.
A climber of corpses climbs high to heights we’ll never see,
I’d rather be a stone than those doing the stoning.
Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
I think that I’ve had it with their vinegar disguised as honey.
I won’t make another stitch in their golden wool,
it’s time to eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.
A bullet in the street shot from behind;
validated and woke up millions.
No retreat and not changing their minds;
vilified for targeting their billions.
If they really cared they’d ask if you could buy morality,
though typically they’d see if they could find it on sale.
The funniest part is that they could acquire it for free
but it’d be just like giving an atheist the Holy Grail.
Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
it seems to lose a lot of magic when you lose alot of money.
Life’s a ***** but isn’t she powerful?
It’s time to eat the rich because we weren’t born full.
Life wouldn’t be tragic if it wasn’t also funny,
more bills; they stack it and the weather stays sunny.
Rock bottom in a ditch, dazed and in a lull
now it’s time eat the rich ‘cause we weren’t born full.
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 11:46 PM UTC
XI • VI • MMXXIV
︻デ┳═ー
blood drips.
i can feel it on my fingertips,
i can taste it on your lips.
how did we get here?
i am drowning in fear.
there's no escape plan near.
they keep taking.
a nightmare waking.
we keep breaking.
the air is thickening,
gunshots quickening,
this is all so sickening.
blood pools.
genocide fuels.
american jewels.
Nov 6, 2024
Nov 6, 2024 at 10:04 PM UTC
I cannot say if things are worse
Than times that went before
For I saw not that bygone world
Nor what they did endure
Where once their sight was short,
Now it's growing nearer
Starter homes that once held court
Go "green" like silver mirrors.
Elixirless were garden hoses
Plastic cups, no holy grail beneath their noses
Now all you have left are pictures
That time has robbed of hue
I study them now, and try to suppose it
The complexion hides no trace of youth:
Just spoiled cream and rotting roses
A foul-odored truth.
The trade was fair when young were the eyes
That fixed upon that crest, their prize
Now turned white with cataracts,
Still they **** it dry
And turn to bottles for babes set aside,
Begging pity for the old and blind
And anyone too far gone to toil.
"It shall be hard time," or so they cry,
"Served beneath the soil."
It's hard time indeed, that which is served
Beneath the ravaged soil;
So tell me:
Can a head that sold me, the undeserved,
Anoint itself with motor oil?
Jun 20, 2024
Jun 20, 2024 at 1:45 AM UTC
uninvited GUESTS linkedin as the themes of mein kampf.
Despite countless factorial permutations
& combinations, this cyber surfer
avails left and right alm
seeking succor Out Of Human *******
invisibles shackles bind head,
shoulders, knees and toes
mom mee **** sic cured courtesy grim reaper,
boot metastatic cervical/ovarian
carcinoma snatched such balm
when tethered in utero umbilical connection,
etched bromide, which hankering calm
embryonic sensation this corporeal being lacks
constantly subjected to exams
from the brutal school of hard knocks,
which I bewail sets back and glom
mine aim to revel in blissful contentment
but circumstances decrees otherwise
cursing this chap tubby haunted
by veritable elfin grotto dwelling phantoms
hovering over sweet clover - dials a mirage
yes...iris sieve blurbs from gals and guys numb
burred in the billions,
that span the World Wide Web, and exude
premature ejaculatory ecstasy, puzzled if fie
totally tubular trod a tedious trek
along the boulevard of broken dreams,
what happenstance oft finds thyself to flail
amidst difficulty to maximize
optimal opportunities searching for Holy Grail
or whatever constitutes such lofty
personal objective, perchance being hale
and hearty of body, mind and spirit
spurs the furies of fate tut test this primate
while he aims to gallop with mighty industrial
vim and vigor leaving a virtual soundcloud
of dust, though mindfulness helps
to pass go, and chance avoid jail
time, then maybe monopolized feedback offered
to this toothless married quasi herbivore
enjoying poetry stone soup, yet also subsisting
on supplementary vitamin packed glue tin free
NON GMO fruity tall tales for a male
thirty six years shy sans Bing a centenarian,
which span of life best cut short with a nail
(possibly nine inches) hammered into
faux coffin, cuz this imp doth turn pale
at the prospect to fill up a space of land
best utilized by birds - such as quail
Mongoose, or ibis (though aye ne'er saw
one), where cremated ashes sail
across some verdant plain under
cerulean skies putting to rest every travail,
which thoughts of dem eyes spells
relief since potential homelessness,
pennilessness, and wretchedness,
the main impetus explaining
this rambling, shambling, and troubling spiel
the warp and woof ova gauzy veil
imperceptibly looms closer upon
turrets of my digital sea faring gunwale
and thus desperation finds
pleading for monetary
and spiritual salvation.
Before mine danse
macabre doppelganger draws dagger
punctures the skein tight
as a yank key notched belt
housed within mine impenetrable
hermetically sealed invisible bubble
drapes with blackened Hades
hued habiliment therein dwelt
sinister saboteur mastermind
marauder of the Hubble
tattooing and piercing fiery
oculus rift presence unseen but felt
demands sacrifice to traverse
river Styx with unadulterated gelt,
which known phantasmagorical double
diabolical self amidst aftermath
from Armageddon rubble
astride charred global
ruins entire civilization melt
planetary paroxysm prognosticated
by Maya sages with 11th hour stubble
birthed Darth Vader nemesis
with evil upon earth he did pelt
annihilating, decimating, and hashtagging mankind,
the derelict species that fueled trouble
hence evil twin appointed
apocalyptic malevolence spelt
desiccation, humiliation, and laceration
upon once verdant veldt
with mass crematorium
desecration left horrific blistering welt.
Countdown to **** sapiens extinction
predicted millenniums in past
never occurred as predicted on December 21
two thousand and twelve after common era,
whereby catastrophic spark
detonating inferno incinerating blast
eradicating extant flora
and fauna bereft sans hegira
with no means to interrupt
the die since the dawn of civilization cast.
Impossible mission to escape ominous
predetermined fate of human rat race,
nor turn back hands of time
with origin of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday
without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and providing Gaia
to redeem terrestrial space
vestiges of teeming billions
soon erased criminal minds without a trace
forcefully relinquishing simians
planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa
for another dominant species
to claim the place.
Sirens promulgate emergency
toward impending inescapable cataclysm
yet no place to run or hide lest
one boards a rocket light-years away
which makes suspense thrillers
birthed by countless dystopian authors
enviable plot to keep
total Earth's destruction at bay.
Matthew Scott Harris,
a lifetime America Online
Meme bur hastens to convey dire
crisis sparking to offer electric nom de plume
duyeer93, a papa who did sire
deux darling daughters,
yet for ages hive stung
with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire
meow n childhood's end fostering people
strangers even fork
getting this communication,
per S0S sprinkled with auk shucks corny,
Egret - letting opportunities take flight aspire
now pleasures soft as gossamer feather bedding
down play hardened angst
riddled psyche, where ire
Ronny gully stubbornly thrives
amidst adversity as father time spins gyre
row scope at greased lightning speed,
intimating with dead reckoning to hire
grim reaper, who **** patient
as Job, and exemplary at ridding mire
and muck bogs down this dada robbing
existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre
doth flickr-beckoning GoDaddy, cuz
Juno I haint gonna hear angelic choir
or equivalent enlightenment re:
home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire
so haim trying keep sea legs
one step ahead of tipping point
envision self pitched into abyss -
thus end of poetic wire.
Nov 27, 2023
Nov 27, 2023 at 3:17 PM UTC